


You Could Be Happy

by NeonGreyscale



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Meltdown, Post-The Sign of Three, Unrequited Love, self harm (punching walls)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 14:41:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3450857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeonGreyscale/pseuds/NeonGreyscale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the wedding, Sherlock has a meltdown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Could Be Happy

**Author's Note:**

> I know I've not updated my multichap fic in months but I don't have the energy for it. So instead, have my interpretation of what might have happened after Sherlock left the wedding.
> 
> The title is taken from this song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=76Mbnuwk2d4  
> I was listening to this while thinking about Sherlock, and it inspired this thing.
> 
> Edit: I added a few lines to make it flow better.

Closing the door to 221b, Sherlock kept his composure. He didn't let his shoulders sag, didn't let himself grow weak, though after the wedding he was raw inside. Finally closing the door behind him and making his way to his chair, Sherlock sat in the quiet dark. He didn't sit for very long; John's chair was mocking him from its position facing his own. John had been so close, so very close and warm as they'd laughed together the night before he married that woman. John was so warm and golden and soft and strong and if Sherlock closed his eyes, he could feel his hand heavy on his knee--

Sherlock jolted out of his chair as if it had shocked him, and he instead paced quickly across the room, rubbing his hands together forcefully as he caught sight of his crime wall. But the information strewn across it wasn't for a crime this time-- well, unless one chose to call John's wedding a crime. He ran his hand over the notes and the drafts of his speech, all the little details he'd obsessed over to make sure everything was perfect. 

He took down the second draft; he'd not used that one, since he had deemed it too romantic for a speech about a wedding that was not his. (The first draft had the same problem, to an even bigger extent. He had thrown it out before finishing it.) With a slight tremor, Sherlock took down the notes and photographs one by one. He'd done what he'd set out to do, at least- to make John happy. He did it partly out of spite. Mary had her whole life to make him smile the only smile Sherlock's ever cared to see, but Sherlock only had one night left to do it. And he did. He'd made a special space in the John Room of his mind palace, up on a pedestal, of the way he felt pressed up against him in that tight embrace, the one beautiful memory of that day that he would not allow John's new partner to ruin. He might as well cherish it, since he would never feel it again.

"No," Sherlock uttered, low and near-silent as his hands began to shake violently. He smacked them on the wall, tearing off the papers with jagged movements which turned into punching the wall with force and crumpling to the floor, bringing his aching hands up over his head. He rocked himself back and forth to try and shake the memory of his brother's nauseating voice as it told him about the dangers of sentiment. About Redbeard. "Stop, stop stop stop stop!" he repeated quietly until it crescendoed into something closer to a loud sob, and when his voice hitched he went silent, forming the word silently on his lips like a prayer. He knew that he was having a meltdown; hell, he knew when he had been shot, it wasn't comparably difficult to remain self-aware during something like this. That didn't make it any better, though. If anything, it made matters worse. He could see how broken and painfully vulnerable he was. He could always see it, but never stop it. He could always see the people staring with their strident eyes. He could see Mummy crying with a hand over her mouth, knelt down over her broken vase and her screaming son. He was painfully aware of all of those moments, and he remembered exactly how he felt during every one, and he could remember the disgusted and horror-stricken faces of the people who wished they could unsee the uncontrollable freak of a boy. He wished he could unsee himself, too.

But it was over now. The metaphorical tides were withdrawing, and Sherlock was left alone, sat on the floor of his living room amidst ripped and crumpled notes about his old friend. He longed for him to be there with him, but he didn't want to think of how John might react if he witnessed this visceral, shameful scene. He relaxed slightly and stood, feeling empty and somewhat sick with an overwhelming sense of finality. He would go to his room and lay in bed that night. He would flip the pillow over every ten minutes for several hours until his insomnia allowed him some rest. And he would call his dealer in the morning.


End file.
